


This Gentle Death of Mine

by felinefelicitations



Category: Hades (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Cannibalism, Canon Compliant, God Fic, Heart Eating, M/M, Mild Gore, Post-Canon, Temporary Character Death, Weirdness, dead dove do not eat, eldritch!Thanatos, gods being fucKING WEIRD, i guess!!!, peak ares romanticism, respect of final wishes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-15
Updated: 2021-02-15
Packaged: 2021-03-17 00:29:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29462787
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/felinefelicitations/pseuds/felinefelicitations
Summary: It's worth remembering death means something different to the gods. They're called immortal, after all, though mortals have a tendency to think this means they cannot experience death. If that were true, Thanatos supposes they might not dislike him so much.Well, most of them.Zagreus dies and turns red and watery as the blood of his domain, runs back to the Styx that feeds the Underworld; Ares, being War, leaves a body.
Relationships: Ares/Thanatos (Hades Video Game), background Thanatos/Zagreus
Comments: 29
Kudos: 87





	This Gentle Death of Mine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [artvinsky](https://archiveofourown.org/users/artvinsky/gifts).



> dead dove do not eat, thanatos is going to eat ares' heart and while it is described with that lyricism and poetry i love so much & the gore of it left mostly to the imagination, if a carrion crow death god eating his boyfriend's actual heart squicks you out, turn back now goodbye i will see you for something less Fucking Weird soon. 
> 
> this is entirely inspired by an idea that artvinsky kicked at me about "hey what if ares like just gave thanatos his heart and thanatos ate it but it was like romantic" that is a paraphrase
> 
> this is my version of a valentine's day fic i GUESS a day late but let's go

Surrender is a peaceful death.

The battle is well done; Keres haunt the field. A few soldiers pick through bodies, looking for those who yet live. And War, of course, rests under a tree nearby, watching himself undone by a few words, a treaty, agreements that will, for a time, result in peace.

It was a good war, for all that; there will be others. He perhaps did not consider there are not, in fact, any others _now_ , but that will correct itself quickly enough.

There is a toll, the shadows whisper, and then the sound of feet landing upon the ground.

"The field burning broke morale a bit more than you intended, I think."

Ares hums. It is a valid critique.

Thanatos stops before him, casts a deeper shadow than the tree Ares is resting under, scythe against his shoulder as he looks down at Ares. It is, in some ways, a comforting sight, despite the circumstances. It will not be too long now before this hasty surrender is properly agreed; he can feel it as certainly as Thanatos, though in a different way.

(It is an odd sort of quiet, a dulling. Ares has always preferred noise.)

The scythe vanishes; the gauntlet does not, at least not yet.

(It will, but Ares doubts he will last long enough to witness it be put away this time. A pity. He quite likes the hunger that lights up Thanatos' eyes with his gift in hand.)

"Here," Ares says; he holds a hand out, allows armor and all the rest to fade away—it is not wartime any longer, not anywhere he roams.

Thanatos' flesh and blood hand takes his as Thanatos straddles his lap; the clawed tips of the gauntlet prick against his chest. The kiss is sweet--dulls everything further, a distant fog.

It tastes of rest, the deep kind.

(It did not used to be so intimate, dying because he ill-timed a war's end. But there are romantic gestures Death, and only Death, seems to understand. Ares wishes he'd realized sooner; he has yet to find a way to thank Zagreus for mentioning all those centaur hearts in passing. And of course, what better heart would suit than his own?)

"You could still chang—"

"I have not changed my last wishes, no," Ares interrupts. It is terribly difficult to keep his eyes open; what a quickly signed treaty this time. Perhaps razing the fields _was_ a bit much.

"See you later, Ares," Thanatos says.

It is a quiet sort of blackness. It will not last long; it never does. Mortals do so love to fight, for all they pretend they don't.

**

It's worth remembering death means something different to the gods. They're called immortal, after all, though mortals have a tendency to think this means they cannot experience death. If that were true, Thanatos supposes they might not dislike him so much.

Well, most of them.

Zagreus dies and turns red and watery as the blood of his domain, runs back to the Styx that feeds the Underworld; Ares, being War, leaves a body.

Keres and crows mingle across the battlefield, scavenging bodies and souls both while Thanatos waits to be sure Ares very thoroughly gone. Sometimes, very rarely, Ares asks Thanatos wait until Ares returns; even more rarely, Thanatos does. It is...

Well, it is not a part of himself he wants Zagreus to know.

It is very good, that Zagreus doesn't leave a body. Thanatos is not so unlike his sisters; his wings are just as crow as theirs.

(It is intimate; he thinks he almost took a lifelike colour when Ares first offered, if such a thing is possible.)

Thanatos doesn't wait for Ares, not this time. He cuts clean and precise—there is a great deal of ichor, sluggish and sweet, and then the matter of cracking bones dense and thick as storms, before he can finally reach for what is his, that gift Ares offers, a gift perhaps _only_ Ares can offer.

Most the gods do not leave bodies; War leaves plenty, and it is always a feast.

(Thanatos had resisted the urge to indulge a very, very long time. He is like his sisters, and also not. For one, he's more professional.)

Only after he has plucked that wild heart free, still warm with the last of battle fire not quite smoldered out, does Thanatos allow his gauntlet to fade, to clasp it in his hands, one flesh and one bone. It is not like those centaur hearts he had given Zagreus in place of his own—Thanatos has no heart of his own, otherwise he'd have given it a thousand times over. He's wondered, sometimes, if that's why Zagreus never got the hint.

Ares' heart is a red thing, dense muscle and overgrown with feeling. It is loud when it beats, though presently it is still. It is, perhaps, the finest gift anyone has ever offered Thanatos, and he is glad Zagreus does not know that, too.

He likes what Zagreus thinks of him. Well, except that Thanatos is standoffish, obtuse, when truly it's Zagreus who is baffling, with his bleeding heart and need to rush.

Thanatos is not waiting for Ares to return, but he takes his time savouring the gift anyway. The campfire smoke of it, the sweet ichor richer by far than ambrosia, those echoes of battle that slip and slither down his spine with each bite, that make his face flush and give him an idea just what a pulse is like. The warmth that coils so tightly in all his bones until he is so drunk he can hardly stand, dizzy at an offering that does not stop him from his work but does, perhaps, make him delay it for a while.

Mortals should be a little more grateful to Ares, he thinks; it's not every day Death is late.

**

He does not wait for Ares, but it's still Ares who finds him, smeared in all that golden ichor with a scythe sharp beak, too many wings and not enough eyes, bone peeking through feathers. It's still Ares who finds him nearly as savage as the heart he's eaten, Ares who cups the general area of a possible face and presses a kiss to what might be, if Thanatos were shaped more mortal looking, a cheek. It is the right area.

He is still very, very drunk. Warm, lifelike nearly.

Thank you—which is what Thanatos would like to say; it comes out instead the crackle of crows all croaking in time, discordant and cacophonous.

It is all right. Ares is a god of all that din and clamour.

"You are quite welcome, my favourite god," Ares says.

It is still so terribly much; no one else has ever given Thanatos their heart so thoroughly. Perhaps no one else can. Thanatos is still not wholly sure why Ares does it, though he can almost, almost grasp it in his present haze. Death, after all, follows War for a reason; Ares has always seemed to understand as much, respectful all their very long lives despite their different opinions on the matter.

"Here," Ares says; gathers him up and tugs his thoughts from wanderings of _why_ to the more present _here_. It is quite awkward with so many wings, with so few eyes—three of them, unblinking things; he's used to five—but he allows it anyway.

He is glad Zagreus cannot see him like this; he is equally glad Ares can.

They leave the battlefield for a cave, well away from the sun. Ares holds him, presses kisses across him, sentimental as ever; Thanatos allows it, because he enjoys the sound, the ripples that spread and reverberate as his temporary heart responds to that new one, the live one in Ares' breast. Enjoys feeling what he thinks live must feel.

It fades, of course. It always does.

He pulls himself back in, more mortal looking than not. Five eyes, not three, and no wings at all.

Ares kisses his cheek, not the guess at where it might be, then his mouth that is soft and not scythe sharp at all. Thanatos presses into that one, focuses on warmth and tang of metal and falls just a little more firmly into his chosen shape when Ares' large hands take his—one flesh, one bone.

Ares pulls away first; he, unlike Thanatos, needs breath. He does bring Thanatos' hands to his face, kisses the fingertips, corners of blood red eyes crinkling amused as Thanatos looks away.

Well, so much as he can. Not all his eyes can close.

"I should get going," Thanatos says. He should. He doesn't want to, but he has stolen enough time for now; not even the ghost of a pulse is left in his chest.

"Of course," Ares says, and presses one last kiss to his cheek before he lets go. "An honor, as ever, Thanatos."

"Tsch."

Perhaps there is a ghost of a pulse yet.

Thanatos takes one last kiss for himself; it is not, unlike Zagreus, every day that Ares dies. He's allowed to savour these rarer deaths. Ares lets him, as Ares lets Thanatos so many things he very likely shouldn't if he values not coming undone at the seams, but, well.

Ares can make his own choices; Thanatos is glad Ares' choice is running towards Thanatos, and not away.

**Author's Note:**

> now with art (that IS explicitly gorey) by artvinsky!!!![link here go look it's beautiful](https://twitter.com/artvinsky/status/1361828962003865601?s=19)
> 
> and a second piece by Pan (also explicitly gorey) [you can see here](https://twitter.com/Pan_Wild_God/status/1362226123417993218?s=19)
> 
> and a third by leah ;3; [here you go](https://twitter.com/ushitenchan/status/1362602203035279366?s=19)


End file.
